A great hall surrounds me, along with revelers indulging in food and wine, all celebrating the night before the last day of the new year’s celebration. But I’m tired of the merriment and retire to my room.
“Are you ready for bed, my lady?” my maid asks as I enter the chamber.
“More than I can say.”
I sit before the fire in the hearth and the older woman unbraids my hair, then removes my broach. I stand and I’m helped out of my heavy robes and into my night dress. Not some sack of harsh wool that peasants are forced to endure. This is silk. A shimmering red sheer. The maid withdraws to hang the dress and I climb into bed. Beside me on the nightstand sits a cup of honeyed milk. My favorite. The warm, sweet liquid always calms me.
I lie in the bed, beneath the comforter.
Sleep comes quickly.
Perhaps tonight there will be a new message.
Dreams are the Sorcerer’s tool. A way of him avoiding the perils of travel, to send a message which cannot be ignored. Always, the message glows inside my head. Bright. Vibrant. Alive. With sound and smell. Even sensations. Especially the sensations. And the music. Played on a rebec and an organ, the odd combination of the stringed instrument and pipes one of the Sorceror’s ways to alert my subconscious to pay attention. When the dreams first started I told myself I was a woman worthy of honor and respect. Not an old man’s messenger. But I have come to welcome the visions.
Light and music appear inside my brain and I am standing by the gates to a fortress. No. The gates of my fortress. Snow falls. I feel the brisk air and the tinkle of the flakes as they dissolve on my skin. A dozen men on horseback are fast approaching. No faces are clear. Just outlines. They keep coming, riding at full gallop, but never really venture any closer.
“One of those men will one day save what is yours,” the Sorcerer says to me.
His voice is its usual breathy whisper, each word perfectly enunciated.
“Save what?” I ask.
No reply.
“And from whom?”
Silence.
To find out more, I flee the gate and rush toward the horsemen, who seem to only move farther away, as does the Sorcerer’s voice. He’s still speaking, but I cannot hear. I call out for more explanation. There’s a reply, but it echoes away like a stone down a deep well.
Which brings me awake.
My eyes open.
I shiver beneath the pelt comforter. The fire in the hearth has burned down. A chill fills the night air. What did the dream mean? I should know. I am properly schooled in the healing arts, as well as the skill of second sight. True, more Christians than Celts and Druids now exist across the kingdom, but the old ways linger. My aunt trained me as a priestess, which by its mere label makes me suspect to all those who have adopted the one god philosophy of Christ. Priestesses are now called witches, as people fear what they do not understand.
Particularly men.
No. Just weak men.
Jealous of the power women possess. A power a man can never have. The ability to give life. And that, coupled with lust and passion, can become a threat. Women are never perceived as dangerous because they might rebel or conspire. But dare to control a man? To have him do what he might not ever normally do?
That is a power men fear.
Men long for us. Yearn for us. They grow stupid wanting us. A smart woman can exploit that weakness. I have done so many times and will do it again. But in retaliation for their own shortcomings, their own mistakes, weak men have come to label intelligent women witches.
But there is no such thing.
The late hour, the crackle of the dying fire and the effects from the honeyed milk once again make my eyes heavy.
Sleep is returning.
Which I welcome, knowing the messages are over for the night.
* * *
I awake.
Morning has arrived.
I rise from the bed and send my maid to retrieve a bowl of rain water, wine, and oil. I’m still bothered by not being able to hear all of the Sorcerer’s message. I should have stayed by the gate and listened to what he had to say. The dream had felt portentous, and I need to try and glimpse the future and perhaps learn what the Sorcerer was trying to tell me.
The maid returns with the rainwater in a wooden bowl. I drop in oil until the surface is glassy and reflective. I send her away and strip down naked. To the fire in the hearth I offer sage leaves and juniper berries, savoring their scents in the chilly air, staring into the oily surface, trancelike. It takes a moment, but an image appears. A man, unknown to me, and the Sorcerer, talking to one another. The other man gestures and a beam of light shoots from the ring he is wearing. A thick band of gold, with a red stone at its center, that glows like the sun.
“You shall know from the color of the stone,” the Sorcerer whispers from the surface of the water.
Then his voice grows faint. I bend close to hear more. His mouth moves but I cannot determine his words.
“Say it again,” I tell the image.
But he is gone.
A sense of anticipation rolls through me, followed by joy, then dread.
None of which I understand.
* * *
I don my favorite robe, purple shot through with red silken threads, then have my maid weave a red ribbon into my long dark hair. I fasten my mother’s moonstone necklace about my thin neck and hasten to join the late-morning festivities outside of the castle walls. The fifteen-day celebration of the new year is drawing to a close with a final tournament. I take my place of honor in the crowd, doing what is expected from Arturius’ sister, though if only half by blood. As leader he is likewise in attendance and acknowledges me with a casual wave and a smile.
“My lady?”
The voice comes from behind me and I turn to face a man.
He’s handsome with black hair, firm jaw, and deep, almost liquid eyes. I do not know him so I say only, “How may I help?”
“I’m Helians of Gormet.”
And he holds out his hand.
On one finger I see a heavy gold ring, its stone flashing the red color of the silk in my dress.
You shall know from the color of the stone.
From the Sorcerer.
My senses come instantly alert but my face and eyes betray nothing. The mask, I call it. Essential for survival in a man’s world.
“Might I wear your colors in the fight?” he asks me with a smile.
It’s not an unusual request, as it is customary for the participants to seek a female patron. Why I was chosen remains a mystery. But the ring he wears signals the correct reply.
“I would be honored, good sir.”
Over the next hour I watch as Helians bests all competitors. No one rises to the challenge, and every time he catches my eye I feel my cheeks flush, my blood warming. A strange and different sensation, but one I welcome. Particularly since I was warned that this man might prove important. No break occurs before the evening festivities, so I’m not able to speak with him. But I find myself spending more time preparing my hair and clothes, in anticipation of seeing him at the late meal.
I arrive as the men enter the great hall after attending Mass, singing shouts of Noel, Noel. Bright torches illuminate the cavernous space. Tapestries hang from the walls and trap the warmth from two hearths that burn bright. Smells dominate. So many, mingling together like sweat on skin. Roasted meat. Baking bread. Sweet oils the men and women wear. Many people of high standing fill the tables, drinking and eating with abandon. The merrymaking continues for hours, the mood growing more and more carefree as more wine is consumed. Whether by chance, or at his specific request, or thanks to Arturius’ insight—I do not know which—Helians has been seated beside me. Our talks are interesting. His travels. My family. Our fortresses. The longer he keeps me at arm’s length, the more outrageous my flirtations become.
Coy has never been my nature.
My aunt taught me the ways of the old world. I live by an uncommon belief system. Always have. Always will. Which can lead to trouble. But knowing that the meek inherit nothing, I lean forward and lay a hand on his arm, making sure he notices my décolletage. Tomorrow I head back home. This may be my only opportunity to understand the Sorcerer’s message.
“Good sister,” Arturius calls out from across the hall. “Will you honor us with a song?”
The moment between us breaks.
I turn and catch my half-brother’s eye and nod, knowing that the request must be granted. I enjoy showing off my voice and the performance is well received. After finishing three songs, while accepting the compliments of those present, Helians offers his personal praise and presents me with a gift, a token of good luck, he says, for the coming months.
“It’s the finest thing I have brought with me and I’m pleased to offer it to the finest maiden here.”
He opens his fist and reveals the gold ring studded with a ruby.
“Place it on my finger, please,” I say. “So that I may always think of your hand touching mine.”
If he is shocked by my forwardness he hides his surprise. But my message is clearly heard for once the ring is on my finger, he draws me with him into a carola, joining hands with the other dancers. His eager glances to my lips and breasts, and my encouraging smiles of agreement inflames us both.
He wants me.
Once the song ends we slip from the great hall and hurry toward my room.
The next few hours change my life.
Had he not pursued me. Had I not responded. Had we not begun our lovemaking in the hallway before retiring to my bedchamber. Had he not been such an ardent lover. Had I not been so anxious to understand the message.
So much would be different.